The Last Contract
by WonderfulNonsenseofBritt
Summary: Cicero's deep, dark descent into madness, after meeting his final contract, a Jester with a melancholy past that affects even the hardest of assassins.
1. Chapter 1 - The Jester's Eyes

It was his final contract, for the remainder of his existence. He had been sitting in the living quarters, enjoying a small sweetroll, when Rasha sat next to him, wordlessly. He had not been used to such close contact from the Khajiit. Usually, the feline race tended to keep their distance from other entities, unless they were feeling particularly affectionate. He knew that the catkin was not one for nuzzling, so the closeness with which Rasha presented himself made Cicero feel awkward.

He had experienced quite a substantial amount of activity within the Dark Brotherhood since he was recruited. Not only had they lost their Listener, and invaluable leader, but there had been destruction in all corners of Cyrodiil as it seemed they were being hunted. The assassins weren't looked at fondly in the Imperial province.

Before joining the Black Hand, Cicero was simply another troubled, angst-ridden young adult, filled with an unquenchable thirst for death and destruction brought by his own hand. Becoming an assassin was easy for him, and his new family accepted him instantly. He was a quiet man, and kept mostly to himself. He had had a few lovers in his time, but no one long-term or important. He preferred a life of solitude and darkness, and would often become agitated within large groups of people, especially if he was the center of attention. For those reasons, he loved the tight-knit family in which he was placed and raised.

He took contract after contract happily, never refusing any, and always carrying them out to the best of his abilities. He preferred a short-range mode of attack, usually with a dagger, mostly because he loved the simplicity of seeing life leave the eyes of his prey. It was exhilarating, to watch the glisten of one's eye simply fade as the soul left the body to become one with the Void. Sometimes, he could even feel the life force within the fleshy confines of the individual, like a warm, pulsating life, become detached from the physical body, and float, like fire, over the flesh, only to be lapped up by the Void, until the warmth was completely drained. He would then sigh heavily, thank Sithis and the Mother, and leave the empty shell to rot and become one with the earth from whence it came.

Rasha obviously had intentions. Of this, Cicero was sure. What surprised the red-headed Imperial, was what exactly these intentions were. The Khajiit cleared his throat and turned to face the Imperial, with a small, cat-like grin on his face.

"Rasha has something he would like to offer you, Cicero," he said. "It is up to the rest of the Family to decide for sure, but we are offering it to you."

The Khajiit's sly accent and hissing-like voice made the offer already seem too good to be true, even though he hadn't even actually asked the question yet. Cicero didn't turn to look at the catkin beside him, rather he stared directly at his sweetroll, waiting for him to continue. He knew Rasha well, perhaps even more so than any of his other sisters and brothers. When he insisted on helping defend the Unholy Matron after the statue of the Lucky Old Lady had been destroyed, Rasha wouldn't have it. It was as though, from the very beginning, he had high intentions for the Imperial.

When Garnag returned with the stone coffin of the beloved Night Mother, Rasha seemed intent on Cicero spending as much time with her as he could. Cicero had only assumed it was because of the distinct lack of Listener, and there was no one who could take care of the Mother's body. At first, the alone time with the Mother was eerie and displeasing, and made Cicero sincerely feel uncomfortable. But after a while, he grew to like it – he even found it peaceful. Like he was a small child, sitting at the feet of his mother, who smiled warmly down at him, and held him in her comfortable, though dead, arms.

Cicero seemed to be leaving the Night Mother less and less as the days went by. The remaining members of the Dark Brotherhood took to the streets in order to hear the pleas of the Mother's children, since they could no longer hear Her voice, and therefore would never know of any Black Sacraments performed. They seemed to make do as much as they could, but already, the dread that the mere mention of the Dark Brotherhood seemed to bring to others was beginning to fade, and the Dark Brotherhood seemed to become a band of common cutthroats, rather than the feared assassins they once were.

"Without a Listener, and with the need to protect the Night Mother at all costs, Rasha is reviving an old position," the Khajiit told Cicero. "The position of Keeper."

At those words, Cicero finally turned his head. His honey-coloured eyes flashed with excitement at the mention of such an esteemed position being offered to him. He never truly amounted to much in his life, so the thought of being offered something as huge as this was a great reward for all he had done, and a sort of acknowledgement he had never experienced.

"Why me?" Cicero asked.

The Imperial was a small man, lean, though stocky in build. His voice was never as deep as those he knew, especially in comparison to those Nords from the province of Skyrim that he so often saw migrating into Cyrodiil, and even sounded somewhat squeaky. He was always attractive, especially in his youth, due to his bright red hair, and creamy, caramel eyes. His lips were thin, but pursed sensually, and dipped into light laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. His nose was somewhat large, though pointy, and his teeth were perfect, and straight. His hair was deep red, like the colour of smeared blood, accented with copper tones, and he often kept it long, and in a loose braid or ponytail down his back. His skin was pale and was dusted upon his nose, under his eyes, and slightly upon his shoulders, with light freckles. He took an amount of pride in his appearance, and often kept his Dark Brotherhood clothing clean and tidy, especially if he was wearing it on a kill.

"Because you seem to show the most interest in our Unholy Matron," Rasha insisted.

"I am… Honoured," Cicero replied, a small smile befalling his lips. He rarely smiled, let alone laughed, but sometimes, there were moments which called for a devilish grin, or a polite smile, both of which he was more than capable of mustering.

"Don't thank Rasha yet," the catkin stopped him. "It comes at a price."

Cicero dreaded this. He knew what was coming, and he was underprepared for what the Khajiit was about to say.

"You will be unable to take contracts for as long as you are Keeper, which should be until you greet Sithis in the Void," Rasha explained.

Cicero frowned, not making eye contact with the feline. His entire existence seemed to revolve around the fact that he was an assassin – a killer. He prided himself in that fact. And not being able to ever kill again was a devastating thought. However, if the Dark Brotherhood believed that that was where he was meant to be, then he could not deny it. He did love the Mother, as he was raised from recruiting to be, and being the one closest, physically, to her, was a great honour.

"If you wish to accept this, I will offer you the Keeping Tomes," Rasha explained. "They are a set of books we retrieved from the destruction in Bravil, that the Keeper of the Night Mother requires in order to take care of her. No one has read them, but apparently they contain key information about how to carry out certain ceremonies, and oils which are required to be used on the Night Mother to keep her preserved. If you wish to take this position, I will speak to the others about it, to see if they agree with my proposition. If so, you will be appointed Keeper."

Cicero sighed for a moment, contemplating this. It was a lot to take in for one moment. The thought of never being able to sink his beloved, Ebony Blade into the warm flesh of its next victim, made him uneasy. Being an assassin was all he knew how to do well. However, knowing that these tomes could teach him all he needed to know about being a Keeper took some weight off of his shoulders. Plus, what kind of Black Hand would he be if he was to deny his Mother's needs?

"Alright," Cicero agreed. "I'll do it."

Rasha had spoken with Garnag and Pontius, who both agreed with Rasha's position. The next day, Cicero was told the good news. He was both greatly honoured, and deeply saddened. He made a comment, during the celebration for his "promotion", about the fact that if he had known that his last contract was going to be his last contract, he would have savoured it more. Rasha, feeling a pang of guilt for mentioning it at such short notice, rushed over to a desk in the main room, on which sat a stack of papers, all of which were contracts meant to be distributed amongst the remaining Black Hands. Rasha returned with one, and passed it over to Cicero, who looked down at it, confused.

"I can't take any more contracts," Cicero remarked, looking to the Khajiit.

"I want you to take this last one," Rasha explained. "Savour it. Take your time with it. Enjoy it like it is your last, since it is. Rasha insists."

Cicero smiled slightly in spite of himself, and took the contract. He looked down at it, and examined the details. Already, he could feel his sheathed dagger screaming in excitement at his hip.

"Hm," he said to himself. "A jester. How interesting. I haven't seen jesters in these parts for years."

"Well someone wants the poor fool dead," Rasha commented. "No pun intended."

Cicero nodded, and left the Khajiit, who watched after him, eyes glistening. Cicero couldn't see the small smirk which played with the catkin's swollen, feline lips, or the twitch of his whiskers, as the assassin walked away, eyes upon the paper. Cicero took the contract to his chambers, a shared room with several wardrobes and chests in which they could all place their things. He fished out his usual black and red armour, eyes still upon the paper. A jester… there was something uneasy about that, to him. He felt as though completing his contract would change him… Take a part of him away from himself…

He shrugged, assuming it would simply be because he would no longer be the same assassin he once was – he was becoming Keeper. A much higher honour, and responsibility.

He proceeded to change into his assassin garb from his usual casual Dark Brotherhood robes. He packed a few things, bread, cheese, some healing potions that Garnag had put together for him, and spare dagger, just in case. The trip wasn't far from Cheydinhal to Imperial City, the Talos Plaza district, where the jester seemed to spend most of his time, gallivanting about the statue in the centre. Apparently he had become quite irritating to some individuals in the city, but, to Cicero, that didn't seem like enough to want a man dead. Again, he shrugged it off, and continued to prepare for his trip.

He said his goodbyes to his fellow siblings, receiving more traditional "kill well" salutes, before heading out. He had a rather knobby, dappled gray gelding on which he rode. It did not like too much baggage to carry, so the small pack which he took was plenty. He mounted the steed, who nickered lazily, and took off towards Imperial City.

The ride seemed like a fair distance, and they rode through the entire day, only reaching the magnificent city in the evening. It was somewhat dead at that time, as all the children had gone in to their homes and shops were closing. He stopped his horse outside of the city walls, shrouded within a darkened forest, and quickly draped a robe over himself to hide the Dark Brotherhood armour. He took the horse's reins, and led him to the stables, where he handed the steed off to a rather jolly-looking Imperial. He said nothing and made no expression as he tipped the stable hand, and entered the city.

It smelt of dinner throughout the entire city. Homes were cooking supper and inns were preparing dinners for guests. His stomach turned slightly, and he began chewing a small loaf of bread he had packed. His eyes swept over the streets, looking for anyone who could give him any information on where to find this Jester. They had already contacted the person who requested the contract, though he wished to remain anonymous, and now all that was left to do, was to kill the fool.

Reluctantly, Cicero entered an inn filled with people drinking. There was an unusually large number of Nords sitting at tables today, probably tourists from the Northern province of Skyrim. He approached the woman behind the front desk, who smiled at him politely. She had long, blonde hair and a brilliantly white smile, dressed in the usual clothes which represented wealth, but that fitted to her thin figure well. He removed the hood of the robes and smiled politely to the woman.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked, her voice pleasant and jovial. "Room? Food?"

"I'm actually wondering if you have some information for me," he said. He leaned forward towards her, grinning slightly. "I'm looking for a certain Jester that everyone's been having trouble with. He's the son of an old family friend. They're asking me to take him back to Cheydinhal. Do you know anything about him?"

She took a step back and scowled. "Yeah… He's revolting," she said. "All he does all day, is dance about in the courtyards and in people's backyards. And there's all kinds of rumors about him… About him raping women and practising sodomy. He's a disgusting perverted pig. Apparently he's lured women, and men, into alleys and raped them!"

Cicero widened his eyes. He hadn't been told the entire story, clearly. He wondered if Rasha knew and withheld the information. Or perhaps no one knew at all. He nodded and stood back up. She leaned back forward, and from that perspective, he could quite clearly see the rather large flood of cleavage which spewed from beneath her shirt. His eyes caught it, before wandering back to her visage. Her lips were spread into a broad grin as she watched him watch her.

"Are you sure you didn't want a room?" she asked, seductively.

The next morning, Cicero awoke quickly, and rubbed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, before swinging his legs out of the bed, and sitting up. He heard the groaning of the naked blonde beside him, and rolled his eyes, standing from the bed. He pulled on his own clothing, laughing to himself at how the idiot blonde didn't even notice his Dark Brotherhood armour, and threw the robe back on over it. He left the inn, leaving a tip for the inn keeper, before heading back outside. It was colder today, and the streets were busier. It would be far easier to target the Jester in the morning, due to the vast amount of people who could provide cover for him as he made a daring escape. The ebony dagger sat at his hip in its convenient holster, prepared for quick usage. He headed into the courtyard where the inn keeper assured him he would find his target, and held his head low as his deep amber eyes examined the surroundings.

A rather large circle of people formed around the sound of loud singing and rhyming. He followed the sound and entered into the group, blending well with the surrounding people. Cicero was a rather short man, which made for seeing over heads a difficult task, since the majority of them were the Nords form the night before (the Imperial City natives merely scowled and walked by). He sighed as it donned on him that there was no way he could hill the fool as long as there was a crowd watching him. He tapped a Nord's shoulder, who grunted and turned, glaring down at the tiny Imperial.

Cicero offered a polite, though incredibly artificial, smile. "Hello, my name is Leo," he said. "I'm part of the travel agency between Skyrim and Cyrodiil. I was just wondering how long you folks were planning on staying in Imperial City, so I may tell my managers to be prepared if you choose to visit any other cities in lovely Cyrodiil."

The Nord raised an eyebrow, and for a split moment, Cicero thought he was done for. However, he looked to a friend, exchanged a few words, before glancing back to Cicero and shrugging. "We're planning on leaving next week, Imperial," the Nord said.

Cicero nodded politely, before moving away from him. If they were leaving next week, then chances were that they would most likely be filling the streets and watching the jester dance most likely every day, leaving a rather small time slot for him to manage to assassinate the fool. As he thought of a different plan, he managed to squeeze through two rather large Nords, in order to get a closer look at his target.

It was strange. The jester was quite similar to Cicero himself. He was rather small-built, lean, though not in the same way as Cicero – lankier or undernourished (a key sign of insanity). His hair was shorter than Cicero's own, just under his shoulders, and pulled back. He wore a very strange uniform. A jester motley. Black and red with large, gold buckles and an assortment of spike-shaped flaps at his shoulders hanging down to his chest, everything elaborately trimmed with gold thread. The jacket hung just past his knees, and was tied together with corset-like threads, also gold, at his neck, and down his chest. It looked rather clean, as though he took good care of it, but not himself. His hat had two points which hung down behind him, and bobbed as he danced. He wore black gloves and boots, both embroidered with gold thread, all very well taken care of.

He danced about, rather expertly, standing on his head, doing an assortment of flips, backwards and forwards, a blur of movement, rhyming and singing about nonsense. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. Perhaps he had worked as a jester before, elsewhere, for someone very important in social status, but lost his job, and now resorted to this. He didn't seem like the sort of person to molest civilians, Cicero thought.

Then he saw his eyes.

They locked with Cicero's for only a moment, and chills ran up and down his spine. There wasn't much Cicero was afraid of. Nothing gave him the creeps or even worried him, until he saw those eyes. They were… Yellow. Not dark amber, like Cicero's were, but yellow. Gold, almost, and shone inhumanly. His pupils were tiny, like black pin pricks in the middle of his eyes, and they looked… devilish. Evil. Insane… Absolutely insane. Cicero was forced to break the gaze first, and he quickly looked away. Those eyes never left his sight, however, even when he closed his eyes, as though his mind projected the sight onto the back of his eyelids. He rubbed his eyes, before turning away and leaving the crowd. That man was terrifying. Dangerous. And completely mad.

As he walked away, he heard a laughing. No, a cackling. A squeaky, maddening laugh. And, for some reason, Cicero felt as though the jester was laughing at him.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Bonus

The evening fell upon Imperial City and the sun began to set behind the towers, casting long, dark shadows, like block-shaped fingers, stretching about the surface of the city. Cicero had spent the day in the city, browsing about the small shops (admiring the merchandise of some blacksmiths), sampling a few wares, indulging in a long, pleasant lunch. The life of an assassin was quite luxurious considering the work is simple (usually) and the reward is sweeter than Breton coffee. However, when Cicero had the chance to escape the sanctuary and accumulate a bit of R&R, he took advantage of that.

He was dedicated to being an assassin. The thrill of the kill and desire thereof ran through his veins. The thought of carrying out the Night Mother's will and devoting one's soul to the Void, to Sithis Himself, was exhilarating. However, the chance to breathe for a while was very welcome to Cicero. Besides, he had time to kill anyway.

He returned to the inn and placed his things in a chest at the foot of his bed. He then proceeded to quickly scour the room, making sure there weren't any spells cast upon the room, hidden runes, or even peep holes. Once he was sure, he moved to begin preparing himself for the kill he planned to perform that evening. But just as he began to pull the Dark Brotherhood armour from the chest, there came a light rapping at the door. He slammed the chest shut and spun around, facing the doorway, eyes wide, but attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

"Yes?" he said slowly, but the door was already opening before he spoke. He sighed and relaxed slightly when he noticed it was only the idiot girl from the night before. "What can I do for you?" he offered, politely.

"A hooded man stopped by," she said, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"Oh?" he said, tilting his head slightly.

She nodded, looking to the wall beside him. "He dropped off a paper for you," she said, arm extended with a coarsely-folded note between her index finger and thumb. "He did not say who he was. He just said this was an anonymous tip."

Cicero took the paper from her and glanced down to it, without opening it. His eyes crept slowly back to the girl, where they remained for a long moment. "Was there anything else?"

She slowly entered the room and closed the door behind herself. "Did you… Want company again tonight?" she said, seductively.

Cicero scowled and turned his back to her, pulling apart the sides of the note to read it. "I am busy. If there wasn't anything else, please leave me to solitude."

The woman frowned slowly, before reluctantly leaving the room. Cicero felt her gaze upon him for a long moment, before the door closed fully. His hungry eyes began to scan the white paper as he opened it. His gaze rested upon the sight of a small scrawling, only a few words – an address. He narrowed his eyes, observing it.

Who, other than the Brotherhood, knew of his contract? Perhaps it was a member of the Brotherhood who sent him the letter, in which case, he would have no need to fear – the Black Hand worked in mysterious ways, when it came to collecting information. Nevertheless, he needed to be careful, and suspicious. Usually, there would be a trademark handprint, or at least an initial which would indicate that it was the Brotherhood, but this note had nothing. Simply the address.

He quickly dressed into his usual uniform and draped a black robe over it. He crept out of the room, and eventually out of the inn. It was not difficult with the already-drunken Nords and other individuals within the inn providing cover. Once he was in the streets, he crept through the shadows, remaining in back alleys, staying away from the prying eyes. He headed towards the address given to him.

The air was quite chilly at this time of night. He could feel the cold sting of the night air through the pores between the threads of his tight, Dark Brotherhood armour, though it could hardly be considered "armour" due to the lack of "armour" it possessed. It was comfortable. Meant for stealth. Though, sometimes, he prayed for something a bit different. Something softer, with more give.

Eventually, he made it to the upper class end of town. Rows of incredibly large, dark mansions sat beside each other, looking as though they were leaning towards each other, grumbling about bureaucratic problems or racist slurs, knowing the individuals within those houses were engaged in similar conversations. At the end of the long row of mansions, there sat a particularly lonely-looking mansion, (as though it believed in equal rights and benefits for the working class). It looked to be shrouded in darkness, cloaked in an air of obvious neglect. With the state of the stonework and whatever un-rotted wood which still held it upwards, he was surprised it wasn't horizontal.

He crept up the stairs which led to a side doorway, his light-footed steps not even causing a creak upon the old wood as he approached the door. He fished into his satchel for a lock pick, bringing the two pieces towards the lock in the handle. He placed his hand onto the knob and turned it slowly. He furrowed his brow and moved away when he noticed the door was unlocked. He slowly returned the lock picks to his pocket, before resting his hand upon the pommel of his dagger.

He carefully picked his way into the dark mansion, the door moaning gently upon the old hinges. The room within was pitch black, and if Cicero hadn't trained his eyes, with the help from Rasha's knowledge in Night Eye, to see almost perfectly in darkness, there was no chance he would have been able to carry out the mission in such obscurity. Every surface was practically caked with dust and cobwebs and although the rooms were practically completely empty, any furniture (small end tables, the occasional box or barrel) was rotted or completely beyond use.

A strange smell wafted through the air – the scent of food. Cicero lifted his nose, and carefully followed the smell, until it lead him through a few large rooms, into an incredibly large room, which glowed with candle light. Cicero stopped at the edge where the concealing darkness ended, and the revealing light began. He stared into the room, completely puzzled when he realised it was a dining room. A large, decorative, wooden table sat at its center and was by far, the cleanest thing in the house. The entire room was covered in millions of candles, sitting upon shelves or the mantle and hearth of a neglected fireplace. The table itself had a three rather large candlesticks, all filled with burning candles. The table itself was covered in food, from a large, roast chicken, to a rack of cow ribs, to venison, cheese wheels, vegetables of all kinds, soups, and even deserts. He didn't move, and simply stared at the table, strangely.

"I know you're here," a squeaky, familiar voice came from the darkest corner of the room. The Jester walked out from the corner and eyed him closely, his own menacing eyes flashing. "And I know why you're here." Cicero didn't move. "Come, come. Have a seat. Join me."

With that, the Jester sat at one end of the table, almost gliding across the room as he headed to the chair. Once he was sitting, he waved his hand towards Cicero, as though he could see through the darkness. Cicero made no move for a long while, but when the Jester seemed to become insistent, Cicero felt as though he didn't have much to lose anyway. A simple sit down with his prey was something he had never before experienced, though he wasn't about to deny the chance. Even if the house was filled with people prompted to attack, he knew he could fight them all off easily. He was an assassin, after all. A fearless assassin.

He crept into the room, and headed towards the other side of the table. Slowly, he sat down, his eyes glued to the Jester, who smiled crookedly, insanely. "Help yourself!" he said. Cicero couldn't help but eye a sweetroll hungrily, but knew better. He simply stared forward at the Jester, waiting to see what moves he had up his sleeve.

"Well, I suppose I'll just jump into it, then," the Jester said, sitting back. He plucked a grape off a vine and placed it into his mouth, eyeing Cicero just as Cicero eyed him. "I know you are probably wondering who ordered my death."

Cicero couldn't disagree, he was incredibly curious, but he supressed those thoughts, knowing that it didn't matter who ordered the kill, as long as it was carried out properly.

"Well," continued the Jester. "I'll sate your curiosity with my delicious, juicy, satisfying words." The Jester leaned forward and grinned. "I did."

Cicero's eyes widened, giving away more emotion than he intended. This prompted the Jester to laugh.

"Now your curiosity only blossoms," the Jester remarked. "Why didn't I just kill myself, you're wondering? Well, my biggest fear is…being alone. I fear it more than I fear death. And as long as I'm about to die, I wanted to have someone to share my last moments with. Even a stranger. And who better, than an assassin who's prepared to kill me anyway." He smiled, though Cicero saw no humour in it. Not even insanity. It was an empty smile, with nothing to it. Hollow. "I suppose I should tell you a little bit about myself. It's best if you understand me."

Cicero narrowed his eyes and watched him. He silently, stealthily, unsheathed his dagger and held it in both his hands in his lap. He reached for a carrot and gingerly began to chew it, since it was the closest thing to him and, in all honesty, he was famished. The Jester leaned back and clasped his hands onto the table, staring at them for a long while. Cicero was never one to care for background stories of the contracts. However, already, this contract was unlike anyone he had ever received. He was used to quick kills in public places or rooms in inns. This was so strange, so different. He found himself becoming curious, and it was getting the better of him. If this went too far, he would end it, he told himself. He took comfort in that thought.

"I was a product of rape," the Jester began. "My mother was young and couldn't afford to raise me, so she sold me to a group of bandits who assured her that they would take care of me and any day she wished to see me again, she could. They then raised me for a short while until immediately introducing me to a mine which they had overtaken. From the years I could wield a pickaxe, I was working in the mine. Eventually, the Imperial Court, directly issued from the Emperor himself, attacked and raided the mine, killing all of the bandits, but leaving me alive. I was taken back to the Emperor, only a boy then, who decided that I could be of use to the Court.

"As I grew, I discovered that I could contort myself. I was fearless and could bounce off of anything, perform countless acrobatic acts, and even sing quite well. Although Jesters had not been around for years, the Emperor seemed to like having me around for the sake of keeping the Court, and guests of the Emperor, amused. I would sing, dance, tell jokes, and hang off of the chandelier performing all sorts of acts. This kept me fed, clothed, and gave me a bed in which to sleep for the first several years of my life. And, this delicious motely," he gestured to his outfit.

"When I was a young teenager, the Emperor had a son, and I was taxed with also amusing the baby. The boy grew to love me…" the Jester paused for a moment, his eyes darkening for a split second, before lighting maniacally again, prompting a sinister chuckle. "Oh, how he loved me! At first, simply because I made him giggle in his crib; however, as time passed, and he grew into an adolescent, and he didn't only love me for my dancing. He cornered me in my chamber one day, and confessed his love for me. Obviously, I was incredibly taken aback and almost afraid of this confession, but he assured me that if I denied him, he would have me thrown out." He laughed madly. "How could I not fall for him then, eh?!"

Cicero widened his eyes slightly. Sick bastard, he thought to himself. The Jester seemed to get far too much amusement out of this rather dysfunctional past. Though it was probably one of the several things which drove him mad. He laughed and laughed for a long while, before sighing and shaking his head.

"He forced sex upon me," the Jester continued. "At first, it was enough that I would perform for him. After I performed, he'd sit me onto the edge of his bed, and kiss my skin. My face, my shoulders, my lips. Every day, he would kiss more and more of me, until…" He shook his head violently. "And, of course, I just _rose to the occasion_!" He laughed maniacally again. "How could I not? Anyway," he calmed too quickly. "He forced me to have sex with him. How uncomfortable when you don't want it! And it would repeat itself… It was only once a week at first, then a few times a week, and eventually it was every day. Afterwards, he would lie beside me and stroke my hair, and told me that if his father was to ever find out, I would probably be killed. What sweet words to hear after sex!

"Eventually, I went to his chamber one day, and confronted him. He was, at the time, seventeen, already being trained to take over the Empire when his father finally died. I was much older – early thirties. I told him I was finished with what we had, and I wanted no more of it," the Jester than put on a rather obnoxious, mocking voice, clearly meant to represent the Emperor's son. "'I've told you before, Jester, if you ever leave me, I will tell my father, and he will have you killed!' said the little prat. But I was prepared to leave. I had already packed my things. I was leaving. I was leaving the Imperial Court. I was even planning on leaving Cyrodiil. My last task was to break ties – beginning with the Emperor's son perhaps wasn't the wisest choice, in retrospect," he added, laughing.

"The boy was taking combat lessons with the Imperial Army's General, employed by the Emperor himself," the Jester explained. "He overtook me easily. He tied me down. He wouldn't let me go… For days. He would show up at midday and feed me, and do the same again in the evening. And at night… He would have his way with me. Raped me… Constantly."

For a moment, Cicero felt pity wash over him. But it was quickly subdued when the Jester dropped his shaggy, red-haired head into his hands, his hat strangely remaining tightly fastened onto his head. His shoulders began to shake, then his whole body seemed to be convulsing. Worry washed over Cicero for a moment, but he paused and was in absolute awe when he realised that the convulsions were actually the Jester laughing madly. This man truly was insane. Of that, there was no doubt. Eventually, he sighed, and sat back. His face was red and drenched. Had he laughed so hard he began to cry? Or was he crying so hard he began to laugh…?

"And now I bet you're wondering how I got here," the Jester chuckled. "Well, that's quite simple. The Emperor found me. Tied up… Barely alive. He asked me what happened to me… I wouldn't tell him. He set me lose and quickly looked over me to make sure I wasn't wounded. I assured him I was fine, but I begged him to let me go. To set me free. To release all ties to the Emperor – and his son. He inquired as to my reasoning behind this, but I refused to tell him. It was too painful. Eventually, he agreed, and I was set free."

"I became a vagabond," he continued. "I couldn't make ends meet anywhere I went. I travelled all over Cyrodiil. I tried Hammerfell, but couldn't survive that heat. The Bosmer didn't accept me in Valenwood. Elsweyr was simply too baron and even the Khajiit themselves were leaving it. The Dunmer of Morrowind detested me, and there was no way anyone who is not an Argonian can survive Black Marsh – especially an unpretentious Imperial Jester. The only place I felt somewhat comfortable was Skyrim, but the Nords are far too imposing, and they seem to have a very strong hate for Imperials, so I couldn't survive there either. Where was left for me? I knew there was no chance I could last in the Summerset Isle… Those Altmer would tear me up and spit me out. So where did I go? I had no choice but to return to Cyrodiil. I eventually wandered back to the Imperial City. And what had I discovered when I got there? Well, the Emperor's son had been killed. How? A bandit raid! How poetic is that?!" he burst into a fit of laughter again. "Not in a grand battle as he so desperately craved, but by the mindless, weak fiends that brought me to Imperial City in the first place!"

The laughter continued on for a long while, while Cicero eagerly squeezed the hilt of his dagger. Oh, how he wanted to silence that Jester's laughing… But his curiosity was slowly being satisfied, and he couldn't end it now. Eventually, the Jester breathed to compose himself and he sat back again, eyeing Cicero closely.

"I had nothing to do in Imperial City," said the Jester. "No one wanted me. So, I took back up my delicious motely and began to work, doing what I do best, in the streets for coins. I had just enough for a room at the inn and a meal every night. I have not had a proper conversation with anyone, spent time with anyone, touched anyone, slept with anyone, kissed anyone, loved anyone, since the Emperor dismissed me. My life seemed hollow, yet endless, as though a stretch of this mindless routine would continue for the remainder of my existence, and it seemed infinite." He smirked slowly as he stared at Cicero. "And that is why you are here. You are to end my immortality. I need to die. But I needed someone to know why… I needed someone to know who I am. I needed to be inside someone's head for the rest of their lives. Because if I am not to remain immortal physically, I damn well will live on in someone's thoughts."

Cicero frowned. "The woman at the inn said you raped people in alleys," he remarked.

The Jester chuckled and shrugged. "There are rumours about me all over this wild world in which we live, assassin."

"Are you the one who have the anonymous tip to me in the inn?" Cicero inquired.

The Jester nodded, eyes flashing, grinning broadly.

"My first proper conversation with someone," the Jester laughed. "And it is with the man who is to kill me."

What a way to go, Cicero thought. This man's life would be ended without him knowing what real love was, how a real kiss felt, how it felt to make love to someone properly. Cicero was the only man he had spoken with about the Jester's life. He was the only man with whom the Jester spent time, who wasn't heckling him or denying him a job somewhere. Cicero felt a massive burden upon his shoulders. He felt sick to his stomach, as though not only the fate of this Jester was in his hands, but also the moments before the Jester's end. Which was strange for Cicero, since he was a remorseless killer. He cared not who lived and who died, as long as he carried out the will of the Night Mother. Especially now that he was appointed Keeper… Perhaps caring about the outcome of this man, and the way in which he would go, was some sort of training for teaching himself a level of sensitivity, as well as understanding dignity.

He stood from his spot at the table, and, dagger in hand, ventured to the other end of the table where the Jester sat, eyeing him, the Jester's eyes flashing yellow at the sight of him, a broad grin smeared across his lips.

"Are you going to kill me now?" the Jester asked.

"No," Cicero shook his head. "You are the one who ordered the death, and therefore you may decide how you want it carried out, as well as the moments before the death. As the one who initiated the contract, you have that right. Call it… A bonus."

"A bonus," the Jester grinned. "What a bonus indeed."

Cicero was used to receiving contracts consisting of the ordered deaths of mercenaries, hunters, ex-wives, cheating husbands, thieves, judges, even people of authority. He had heard of far more intimate contracts about which his fellow Black Hands told stories while sitting around the dinner table at the end of the day. The deaths of children… Rapists… Mothers… Those were difficult contracts. But he had never heard the story of an insane man ordering his own death, simply to silence the whispers of his past, which were clearly what drove him insane. He put forth his own life into Cicero's hands… And, because of the strangeness of the contract, the newness of Cicero to the Dark Brotherhood, and the Jester's eyes upon him, not bright yellow, but mellow gold, Cicero felt this life was delicate, and he needed to take care of it.

No one would ever see him doing this, and he knew that no one would believe him anyway, so it wasn't for notoriety or publicity. It wasn't even for Cicero himself, though he searched for logical reasons for his actions, he found none. No, this wasn't for anyone else. This was for his contract – the nameless Jester. He deserved this. He had done nothing wrong to anyone (though he was sure some of his other contracts probably had similar stories, but he had never sat across a food-filled table and listened to it). He took heart to this story. He cared for this other man… Almost as though it would be the last thing he ever really cared about (other than the Mother, of course).

The Jester eyed the blade tightly clutched within Cicero's fist, anticipating it running beneath his chin, slicing his skin as easily as a razor blade through warm butter. His eyes then crept up Cicero's body, slowly, until they locked onto the assassin's. Cicero felt a strange chill, like cold fingertips slide over his skin where the Jester's eyes touched. He felt inclined to kneel down before him, making himself completely vulnerable before the Jester. He held onto his knife – he was no fool. But he felt as though he knew the Jester would not harm him.

From this close, Cicero could see the overwhelming golden oceans of sadness within the other man's eyes. He almost felt as though he wished to reach out to him, cup his face, lull him and assure him everything would be alright. Even though he knew, very well, that it would not be. The Void was not a heaven, like the Nord's Sovngarde, or the heavenly plains in Khajiit religion. It was nothingness… Empty, blackness, cradled in the cold arms of Sithis. And this was where Cicero would be sending him…

"I don't want anything," the Jester said, his voice low.

"There has to be something," Cicero insisted, staring into the Jester's eyes.

The Jester shrugged quickly, before looking back to Cicero, and staring almost endlessly into the depths of his soul, through his eyes. Cicero immediately felt stuck to the spot, but he almost didn't want to move. He felt the truth and reality of this individual consume him, hold him, embrace him, warm him. There were endless planes to this man. This… Jester. And as interested as Cicero was, he could not become attached. That would be… Dangerous.

"There is something," the Jester said slowly. From this proximity, his words felt as though they were being spoken directly into Cicero's ear, sending more chills, like fingertips, run down his neck, shoulder, arm, and spine.

"Anything," Cicero breathed in response, his eyes half-lidded, forcing themselves to close, especially when the Jester began to gently lean forward towards him, and whisper into the bare, exposed skin of Cicero's neck. "Tell me what you want."

The Jester slowly grinned and closed his eyes, as he whispered his deep, dark desire into the assassin's skin. "A kiss," he breathed. "A real kiss."

Cicero's eyes opened slowly, and turned to watch the Jester. In the corner of his vision, he could see the ends of the Jester's dual-pointed hat, the ends of his hair, the skin of his neck… And when the Jester began to pull away from him, Cicero's eyes followed, until they locked back onto the Jester's. For an instant, they flicked to his lips, as if to imagine engaging in the request. Part of him begged him not to. It was strange, he told himself. He didn't know this man (though that never stopped him from sleeping with all the women he had before), he was insane and possibly wanted to kill him (though Cicero was obviously stronger and could probably subdue him if necessary), he was a man (though the social taboo of being with a member of the same sex hardly applied in most of Tamriel), and, worst of all, he was a contract.

But this was the contact's request as the bonus for killing the contract.

Torn, Cicero knew there was only one thing he could do. He could not disobey the contract initiator. Besides, Cicero commented to himself in the back of his mind, it wasn't like the Jester was hideous. He chuckled to himself in his mind, which showed through in nothing but a small smile. This encouraged the Jester, and he leaned forward slightly, closing his eyes. The earthy, sweet smell of the Jester, with slight undertones of sweat from dancing in the streets of the Imperial City, overwhelmed Cicero for a moment, even blocking out the sultry scents of the food laid out onto the table. If the Jester had gone through this much simply for a kiss, who was Cicero to deny him? Cicero examined the Jester's face for a long while, exhaling softly, allowing his eyes to flutter shut, before fulfilling the contact's bonus.


	3. Chapter 3 - Indulgence

The Jester's lips were cold, stiff, and dry, at first, as though he was kissing a statue whose lips were pursed. However, as the kiss lasted a few moments, the stone lips seemed to melt and warm, molding into Cicero's.

The Jester's first response, was to heavily sigh, overwhelmed with the suddenness of the motion, as well as the fact that the assassin even agreed to it in the first place. Broken as the Jester was, he associated kissing with the wrong thing, though none of the kisses were like this. Although he was well aware that the assassin was somewhat obligated to do this, there seemed to be more passion, more intensity, more feeling in this one, simple kiss, than he had ever experienced in his rather depressing existence. It didn't feel broken. It didn't make him want to wrench away and cower in fear. If anything, it made him want to progress it, continue it, allow it to grow. Though, since he was kissing an assassin, he knew that was wishful thinking.

Cicero, meanwhile, had a mind rushing with countless things to say, do, react. Kissing this… Jester. It was absurd. Strange. New. He… Liked it. Did he like it? Yes. He liked it. It wasn't like anything he had ever felt. Kissing the women he had, had typically been rushed, though analytical. Like clockwork, there were steps to follow. Soft at first, let it grow, and he would often decide the pace, based on her reactions to his advancements. It could be far more complicated than necessary. However, with this Jester, it was so simple. It was a soft kiss, and both of them seemed to understand the other. There was no figuring-out, with this kiss, though it was not as fixed and clockwork-like as kissing a woman. It could have been exclusive to the Jester and maybe not all men, but it just seemed far more… effortless. It was easier to wing it. It was easier to enjoy.

After a moment of motionlessness, simply a soft pressing of lips against each other, the two pulled away from each other. Cicero's eyes immediately opened, but the Jester's stayed closed. A slow smile crept onto the Jester's face, and he said nothing. He hardly moved. Cicero pulled away from him, and watched him closely, several thoughts still exploding within his mind. Where would he go from here? Was he simply to kill him? The worst part was… He wasn't sure if he could.

"Wow," the Jester said, sighing. "Never has anyone ever… Kissed me like that." He slowly opened his eyes and looked to Cicero, a blatant glint of hunger deep within them. "I wish it didn't have to end."

As he spoke, Cicero found his gaze glued upon the Jester's lips as they moved. He found himself suddenly immensely hungry for those lips. He thought of kissing the woman from the inn a few days prior. She was so basic. With this Jester, there was a fire, as he was, clearly, incredibly insane, and therefore, the hunger which exploded from him from the simplicity of a kiss, entered into Cicero through the electrifying connection of their lips. Now, Cicero found himself starving, desperately, for more of what he simply received a taste, a desperation he was sure the Jester shared.

"It doesn't," Cicero said, his voice shaking violently, before he placed a gloved hand on the back of the Jester's head, and pressed their lips together.

The Jester sighed heavily, and leaned into the kiss without thinking. Cicero's hand fell to the Jester's back, and pulled him towards Cicero. Soon, both men where kneeling uncomfortably on the hard, tiled floor of the Imperial City mansion. The Jester's arms snaked around Cicero's neck and pulled him in. Cicero dared embark further in this endeavour. He gently bit at the Jester's bottom lip, pulling back slightly, before releasing the lip, and licking it softly. The Jester responded enthusiastically, and their tongues met, sliding against one another's, like a rather moist waltz taking place within their mouths.

A small moan escaped the depths of Cicero's throat. It was deep and quiet, but the Jester heard it, and took it as a prompt to lean onto Cicero. Before he knew it, the assassin was lying flat upon his back, the Jester kissing him deeply from above. Cicero's eyes opened, and deep gold met bright amber. They parted from each other, both breathing heavily, in perfect unison. The stare lingered for a long moment, before the Jester's own gloved fingers flitted, shaking violently, over the golden buttons of his motley. Cicero watched as the jacket was removed and tossed aside, leaving a rather toned stomach and chest, dotted with copper hairs.

Cicero took the Jester's hands, and placed them onto the buckles of his own assassin's garb. Expertly, the Jester stripped the majority of the clothes, staring down at thicker, though, leaner body, also dotted with not only deep, red hairs, but the dusting of freckles, upon his shoulders, arms, and leading onto his upper chest. The Jester placed a soft kiss upon Cicero's collar bone, causing the assassin to tilt his head back and sigh heavily, closing his eyes. The Jester proceeded to plant soft kisses, rough nibbles, and gentle sucks upon the otherwise pale flesh of the assassin. Cicero breathed sharply through his teeth as he did so, fists clenching around his own gloves.

The Jester planted kisses down Cicero's body, until his lips found the waistband of the tight, maroon and black pants of the Dark Brotherhood's uniform. He undid many more buckles and clasps and buttons, before the pants were freed, and a rather enthusiastic member sprang forth from the material confines. Cicero looked down, wide-eyed, watching the Jester closely. He hadn't anticipated such a kiss going this far. However, he also never anticipated such things feeling as good as they did. He was not inclined to stop it any time soon.

The Jester slowly slipped the warm, stiff flesh of Cicero's manhood into his mouth. Cicero's head dropped back, and he unleashed a whimper through his teeth. Fuelled by this, the Jester continued his work on these southern areas, while Cicero simply laid back and tried his best to not cry out in ecstasy. He could feel the Jester's soft tongue running against the base of his manhood, stimulating him in all the proper areas.

Soon enough, Cicero could take no more, and sat up, his gloved hands grasping the Jester's face. He kissed the Jester passionately, before slipping off his gloves and kicking off his pants. He gently laid the Jester onto his back, while Cicero laid over him, staring deeply into his eyes. As his bare hands rested upon the flesh of the Jester's back, he could feel thick protrusions, in long, strips, down the length of his back, at odd angles. Scars. Most likely from a blade, or whip. He gently ran his fingertips over the scars, producing goosebumps upon the flesh of the Jester, who watched him as though his life was in Cicero's hands.

He ran a hand down the Jester's stomach, to his thigh, and roughly gripped the Jester's erection through the motley. The Jester's breath hitched, and he let out a soft moan. Cicero pressed his naked hips to the material, nothing but the soft velvet of the motley separating them from hot flesh upon hot flesh. Cicero couldn't bear such a thing, and descended the Jester's body, pulling off the trousers, boots, and gloves, carefully, leaving naught but the dual-pointed hat. He gently stroked the Jester's member, kissing at his neck, behind his ear, or nibbling at his earlobe.

He brought two fingers to the Jester's lips, which immediately parted for their entrance. He gently sucked at the digits, moistening them, before Cicero introduced them, one at a time, to the Jester's entrance. He had never done this sort of thing before, especially with a man. He knew, however, that this particular area was not self-lubricating. It would need some work.

He took his time, lubricating the area with as much saliva he could produce, as well as a rather oily potion he had in his satchel (it smelt of jasmine – apparently, it was one of the oils essential for Keeping the Night Mother, and Rasha insisted he get used to it; what better way than this?). He carefully positioned himself beneath the Jester, lifting his legs and rubbing his outer thighs gently. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself into the Jester, a long, shaking moan escaping his lips. The Jester cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain, though as Cicero began to slowly pump into him, and press against his prostate with each entrance, he was beginning to develop an affinity for the motion. It was extremely pleasurable. Not to mention, there possessed a passion in the motions. The way which Cicero's hips moved: fluid, like liquid. The way their eyes never wavered from each other, staring intently into each other's very essences. The way Cicero would lean down and gently press kisses all over the Jester's body, from his knees, to his thighs, to his chest, to his lips. It felt right. It felt beautiful.

It wasn't long before Cicero made the Jester aware of his proximity to a successful climax. The Jester responded by taking Cicero's hand, and placing it onto his own erection. Cicero began to pump the Jester, keeping in perfect time with his own thrusts. Each of them moaned, grunted, or cried out in the dance of euphoria. Sweat beaded on their skin, at their temples, their chests.

Cicero and the Jester. One entity. Two bodies, a single organism.

One person.

Eventually, Cicero cried out and flicked his hips, coming loudly and magnificently, arching his back and flipping his long, deep red hair back, sweat flying off of him and catching the candlelight, like fireflies exploding off of the surface of his skin. He shuddered as he finished, thrusting a few more times into him, filling him with his warmth. The Jester concluded at the same time, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his jaw, crying out as he spilled himself over Cicero's stomach, and his own chest.

Slowly, Cicero removed himself from within the Jester, whimpering as he pulled out of the tightness. He sighed heavily, and collapsed beside the Jester, taking a moment to catch his breath. The Jester smiled, and looked to him. Cicero exchanged glances with him, before a wide grin crept up his own face, slowly.

"Is this real?" the Jester groaned.

"I believe so," Cicero replied. "If not, I'm awfully tired for no reason."

The Jester chuckled for a moment, before turning and facing Cicero, who maintained his position on his back. The Jester took the liberty of creeping closer to the assassin, his head resting upon his shoulder. Cicero's arm found its way around the Jester's small frame, and idly played with his long, copper hair, staring at the ceiling.

He had never had sex like that before. Not only had he never engaged in intercourse with another man, but he had never experienced such emotions, during sex. Usually, like kissing, sex was calculating. She needed to be stimulated, certain positions needed to be accomplished, it was like a step-by-step process, which tended to be far more complicated than necessary. Furthermore, it was… a task. A goal, which needed to be reached. An unnecessary obligation, if you will – once you were engaged, you had to finish properly, otherwise, it wouldn't be satisfactory, and you were required to feel shame. However… With the Jester, it was on a whim, sudden, wonderful. Easy to ease into, even easier to end, though the ending was far more abrupt, and fabulous. The kissing beforehand, allowed for the transition into more passionate activities, incredibly enticing. And during… Cicero had never made sounds like that in his life. He had never tossed his head back and cried out. He had never stared so intently into the eyes of his lover that even a gaze threatened to toss him over the edge. And the climax…

Finally, Cicero had never wished to hold his lover so closely that he would become a part of himself, before. He had never simply touched his lover's hair, kissed the top of his head, touched his skin softly with his fingertips, simply to memorise the feeling of him.

Because, of course, it wouldn't be long before he would be forced to leave him for eternity.

Cicero stared at the ceiling, intently. Violently. He did this, because there was a threat looming within his sinuses. A burning, which rose from the depths of his sinuses, to his eyes. He blinked violently as the tears threatened to fall. His eyes felt wet, and the ceiling blurred. His grip on the Jester tightened. Both knew what had to happen, but neither was willing to admit it. There was only so long that it could be postponed. It would have to happen. Cicero sighed heavily, and his voice shook. The Jester heard it.

"Do not weep for me," he told Cicero, nuzzling his skin. "I'm not afraid."

Cicero said nothing, for he could not say anything. If he was to open his mouth, the tears would spill, and he could not risk that. He needed to remain strong, and consider this as only a contract. Nothing more.

But it was so much more.

The Jester lifted away from Cicero, and looked at him for a long moment. Cicero refused to make eye contact. The Jester smiled, and placed his hand on the side of Cicero's face, gently pushing it towards him. Cicero sniffed, and his eyes flickered to the Jesters. A single tear fell from his eyes, burning on its way down. Some cold-blooded killer ihe/i was. The Jester slowly smiled and it seemed genuine. Cicero could not detect insanity behind it. There was hardly even a flicker within his gaze.

"You did this for me," the Jester insisted. "You did this because it was part of the contract."

Cicero rolled his eyes, prompting another tear to detach from the pool within his eyes, and creep down his face. "No, I didn't," he replied, his voice shaking slightly. "I did it because I wanted to."

"So you wanted to," the Jester shrugged his bare shoulders. "So what? Sometimes, even assassins need to pamper in their desires."

"It's forbidden," Cicero insisted, frowning deeply. "And I'm s'posed to become Keeper. How could I possibly Keep the Night Mother with the thought that I did this?"

"Do you regret it?"

Cicero looked to him for a long moment, contemplating. There was only one answer he knew was truthful. The Jester deserved the truth. He wouldn't be alive for much longer. He deserved at least that much.

"No," Cicero admitted. The Jester smiled.

"Then why dwell over it? I could not imagine any Mother wanting to deny her children happiness and satisfaction. If you would rest easier, consider it a moment of weakness," the Jester gently touched Cicero's face again. "A moment of indulgence. Even the hardest of assassins need love."

Cicero stared at him for a long moment, before closing his eyes, resulting in a mass overflow of lingering tears. He shook his head. Although that may be true, Cicero was to dedicate his life to the Night Mother. If there was anyone who should follow the rules of the Dark Brotherhood, it was him, as well as the Listener. He couldn't break them again… He opened his eyes again and stared at the Jester's smiling face. It was far too painful to break the rules.

Killing him would be his punishment. He couldn't go through it again.

Cicero dropped his blade at his side. It fell to a loud, earth-shattering clatter to the floor, a sound which beseeched his ears to bleed. His hands shook violently, more than they ever had with such blood upon them. His legs shook beneath him, more than they ever had as he withheld death. He was so pale, his freckles seemed like pepper upon his while flesh. His cheeks were drenched, though, now, no liquid fell from his dark yellow eyes.

"Make it quick," the Jester had said.

Cicero fell to his knees, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight – the horror, which he had produced. Flashes of moments before, like lightening, struck behind his eyes, causing sharp jolts within his head. He could see himself, sobbing, eyes drenched, salty, acidic tears falling from his face.

He could still feel the tip of the blade against the nape of the Jester's neck.

His mouth dropped open, and his larynx, as though of its own accord, called forth a scream. A blood-curdling, heart-wrenching, shaking scream. The sound hadn't even fallen upon his ears, until long after it escaped his lips. His mind felt numb, his heart cold. He felt simply empty, and the hollowness that was his very self, ached endlessly.

He could still feel his palm, against the pummel of the dagger, press into the flesh, and quickly separate the spinal column from the brain stem.

A quick death.

He wrapped his arms around himself, naked, in shivering and sweating at the same time. And in the midst of this cold sweat, his entire being was in agony. He stared into the dead eyes of the Jester, his lover, looking back to him. He did it. His final contract. It was finished.

He knew, however, that it would never be done. It would never end. The Jester would chase him until the end of his days. The Jester was still a part of him. Cicero and the Jester. One entity.

"I may not know you," Cicero had said, his lips quivering. "But I love you,"

The Jester smiled. "And I, you," he replied.

"I will never forget you," Cicero assured him.

"And I will never leave you," the Jester promised. With that, a spark of insanity erupted in his eye, and an eerie giggle lifted from his lips. Cicero had swallowed hard, and placed his palm onto the pommel of the dagger. The Jester's giggle grew to a chuckle, then a laugh, until the insanity which was within him returned with full force, and had broken free from him in fits of laughter. Cicero had remained silent, and closed his eyes…

Cicero rested his eyes upon the Jester's motley, a ways away from him. The soft velvet was still warm, so smooth and clean. It smelt of him. He slowly removed the cap from the Jester's head, and watched as his copper hair spilled out from within it. He could smell the earthy sweetness of him, the smell of his sweat and skin, as he brought the hat to his lips. He ran the velvet across his face, closing his eyes and sighing, before it found his head. He sat the hat there, and glanced to the table, before pulling off a platter, and looking at himself into the smooth surface. The Jester's hat… It fit too well.

He could still hear the laughing.


	4. Chapter 4 - Cicero is Born

He couldn't bear to spend another night in Imperial City. His knobby gelding had been chewing a mouthful of grain, when he pulled the horse from the stables, gave the stable hand a few Septims as a tip, and ventured back to Cheydinhal. On the way, he thought of Rasha. How dare he give him that contract? Who knows if he knew of the real nature, the suicidal, aching despair of the Jester? If he did know, did he purposely give Cicero the contract for the intent on leaving him with a lasting impression on why Cicero should abandon the assassin's life for that of a Keeper's? If he did not know, why, of all contracts, was that given to Cicero? Did Sithis intend on this being Cicero's final contract? If it had been any other assassin in Cicero's family, the same would most likely not have transpired. He would have been dead with any finality, any closure in his life.

That Rasha… Something seemed odd to Cicero about him (Cicero's mind was wandering, at this point, while the horse nickered uneasily below him). Rasha this, and Rasha that. The new, beloved Speaker. Though, Cicero knew that the catkin had been pining after the position of Listener, but he hadn't put forth any contracts. He claimed he was waiting for the word from the Night Mother's own lips. Furthermore, he claimed he was "waiting to catch up with the older ones". However, when a child prayed to the Mother, their prayers were conveyed immediately. And, as Speaker, Rasha was to discover this, and pass it on. But he wouldn't…

And who was he to offer the position of Keeper to Cicero? Sure, Cicero was devout to the Night Mother, but no more so than any other. Was it simply because he was so new? Was he threatened by Cicero's success as an assassin, and wished him to no longer take contracts? Perhaps… Perhaps he was threatened that Cicero would attract the position of Listener, so he gave him a different role. That conniving Khajiit.

"'Rasha has something he would like to offer you!'" Cicero mocked Rasha, speaking in third-person. "Well, what about Cicero? Why shouldn't Cicero be allowed to have a say in what he does and does not do? Poor Cicero! Forced to perform a contract which breaks his very soul! Poor, lonely Cicero! The Keeper of the Night Mother!"

Rather than experience the ache of having killed someone for whom his heart continued to beat, it was all turned into rage. Maddening rage. Agonizing, maddening rage. His mind felt as though it was on fire, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see the smiling face of the Jester, plastered upon the back of his eyelids. He could almost hear his voice deep within his ears, laughing, taunting him, driving him mad.

"Damn that cat," Cicero hissed, his gloved hands clenching tighter around the reins. "'Rasha will offer you the keeping tomes!' Meh, meh, meh! Here you go, Cicero! Take this contract, Rasha is offering! Cicero, the brave! Cicero, the loyal! Cicero, the killer! Cicero the _fool_!"

At that word, his eyes widened, and his mind stopped reeling. He slowly turned around, his eyes resting upon his pack, which was tied to the back of the saddle. He could see a point of the hat poking out. He had stuffed the soft thing into his bag. A souvenir? No. A memory. He reached back, his fingers gently touching, hands clasping, the velvet point of the Jester's cap. He freed it from the confines of his canvas bag, and slowly put it back onto his head. It was comfortable. As though it was meant to be there.

Almost as though the cap focused his mind, he remembered the aforementioned tomes. Excitement grew within him. If he was to plot against Rasha, he could do it in the tomes which even Rasha couldn't read. Anticipation brewed, and prompted him to kick his heels into the ribs of the horse. The steed whinnied lowly, before bolting back towards Cheydinhal, at a faster pace than he had performed since his years as a colt. Even the horse wouldn't dare cross Cicero, now. No one would cross him again.

Garnag had been waiting in the front hall when Cicero entered. At first, he held his arms out, but paused and lowered the limbs, when he saw the strange unfamiliarity of Cicero's expression, and that odd hat which he wore.

"Cicero," Garnag's deep, Orcish voice spoke, curiously. "How did the contract go?"

"Where is Rasha," he said, turning his head to Garnag.

The Orc was forced to take a step away, his dark, olive skin paling at the sight of Cicero. From this proximity, he saw much more than he had before. This Cicero was not the same short, lean, red-headed Imperial that left only days before. He looked… Wrong. His eyes… They were wide, small-pupiled, and, rather than being a deep, mellow amber, they were a violent gold, as though behind them, a fire raged, and molten gold churned.

"The Speaker is in his chamber," Garnag carefully replied.

"He is no _Speaker_," Cicero hissed, his eyes narrowing, face contorting into one of utter revulsion.

With that, he spun around, and marched away. A pack was held behind him, and a strange material sleeve hung from it. He felt inclined to follow and, being an expert with Magic, he could easily intercept a conversation.

Cicero burst through the door to the Leader's chamber. This action prompted the cunning cat to leap backwards, eyes wide. His claw rested upon the hilt of his slim, elven sword (an item he had stolen from a Thalmor caravan that passed through only days before). When he noticed who it was, he relaxed slightly, but was still rather on edge with the strangeness of Cicero. His eyes… He did not seem right. And he wore a strange hat – a Jester's cap. Clearly, the contract had been fulfilled. But what sort of damage had been done to the assassin?

"Cicero," Rasha said, standing, and approaching him. "Rasha greets you."

"Yes, yes," Cicero said, waving his hand, his eyes filled with a strange rage. "And Cicero demands the Keeping tome. I have carried out the contract. The Jester lies dead. And now, I am to be Keeper."

"Yes, yes, of course," Rasha replied, nodding slowly. "There will be a ceremony this evening. A grand feast, hosted by Rasha – the Speaker – himself. Then, you will be made Keeper, and will be given the tomes. This one promises that it will be a party for the ages."

"Oh," Cicero replied. "I'm sure it will."

The feast was great. The Dark Brotherhood, at this moment, was small, but this allowed for enough food to fill each member to the brimming. Garnag was as fantastic with cooking, as he was with Magic or Alchemy, and it was a treat whenever he was in the kitchen. Cicero took the liberty of indulging himself, despite the sickness which still welled within him. The pain of the killing, the softness of the Jester's flesh, the laughing. Oh, the laughing. These things felt like broken glass and nails within his mind, and his stomach. A wrenching and aching, every time he thought of his flesh, or his eyes, or his hair, or his voice.

Or his laugh.

He was chewing on a rather large, icing-covered bite of sweetroll, when Rasha tapped his fork to the side of his goblet, to silence the dull murmur of conversation. Cicero was prompted to stand, and approach him, where he stood beside Rasha, and a rather informal procedure occurred to signify his entrance into the Black Hand's ranks, as Keeper. After a few words and a moment of applause, Cicero was handed the Keeping Tomes.

His hands shook as his fingers wrapped around the thick volume. It was dusty, though there were telltale signs of use, due to many oily fingerprints and stains of wax or other things. Quickly, he dusted it off, and opened it, his eyes suddenly ravenous for the important piece of information. He knew he would take the time to read this thoroughly in the future, but there was one thing he must know – how to tell if a Listener is true.

After much searching, while the Jester laughed within his mind, while his bright, golden eyes hungrily read each word, his gloved fingers flitting through the pages, desperately, he stopped when he saw it.

"The Appointing of Listener", read the heading. Quickly, his eyes scanned down the page, as it spoke about the sort of people the Night Mother tended to target, the history of the position of Listener, the greatest Listeners, when they rested upon the words: "The Sacred Words".

Slowly, his menacing eyes lifted to Rasha, his body still hunched over the volume. He swallowed hard, chewing on his lips, before stranding straight, smirking slightly, a deep red eyebrow raised. He would remember these words. Burn them into his mind. And wait… Wait for the day the fake Listener would try to show himself to the world. And Cicero would be ready.

"Rasha implores you," said the cat. "Remove the hat."

"Cicero will not," the assassin grinned. The Jester's cap, so comfortable upon his crown. "But I best embark to the Night Mother, and begin a ritual. Her skin must already be tainted by the breath of dust and filth. Adieu," he added, before trotting off.

It didn't take long before Cicero was getting the hang of Keeping the Night Mother. There were special oils that required mixing, or administered at certain intervals, at certain times during the process. Specific ceremonial candles had to be lit, flowers laid at the base of the coffin – no weeds (just Nightshade, Deathbell, a sprig of Nirnroot). There were special words that had to be said, and Cicero spoke them, like a lullaby. He had to wash the body, keep her clean and safe, and very well preserved.

And happy.

As he worked, he tended to think back to the Jester. He could still hear the laughing. Such a thing was prominent in his mind. However, sometimes, as he was deep in thought while moisturising the Night Mother's dead skin, he could hear his moans. His cries, and pleas for more. He had to stop himself when these thoughts surfaced. Such unclean, impure cognitions were not to be had around the Night Mother's sacred body.

As his mind wandered he thought of a Listener. Who would the Night Mother choose? Surely not the Khajiit. No, she would choose someone better. Cicero, perhaps? Hardly. Cicero was a Keeper. And a damned good one.

Sometimes, Rasha would venture into her sanctuary, and sit a while with her. Cicero knew what the feline was thinking. He knew the cat wanted the esteemed position of Listener. He could see it in the cat's yellow eyes. It was clear as day. But Cicero knew she could find better. Much better. Much more suited. Cicero didn't even consider the cat as a Speaker, any longer. There were no more contracts spewing forth from the man they were to consider "Speaker".

It only became worse when Cheydinhal was attacked, like many other cities in Cyrodiil. The sanctuary held strong, but it was touch-and-go, as to how long. The supply of contracts seemed to be dwindling at an uncomfortably fast pace. Furthermore, the simple action of going out and killing was an extremely dangerous endeavour. The Thalmor had a plethora of "detect life" spells in their arsenal, and used them constantly, those damned mages. If an assassin managed to sneak away, and return, safely, he was considered lucky.

But, because of the dangers of staying in the sanctuary, many assassins had fled, in an attempt to find more sanctuaries, or simply to save themselves. Cicero was devoted, however, to the Night Mother. The ever-beckoning Night Mother. Still, and silent. Oh, so silent. The silence was… deafening. Maddening. She never spoke to him. No one did. No one dared. Slowly, Cicero wore more and more of the Jester's garb. One day, he dared put on the gloves. The next, the boots, until he was fully dressed in the motley. However, when it would come time to Keep the Night Mother, he would war the appropriate Dark Brotherhood robes. The Night Mother need not witness his descent into insanity, driven by silence.

But then it happened, as he expected it would. Rasha, most likely growing tired of not being selected as Listener, took it upon himself to declare that he was the new Listener. Cicero's blood had run cold in his veins and, frankly, he was excited for this moment. Retribution. In the middle of the dining area, which had been filled with food to celebrate the return of the Listener, Cicero approached Rasha, dressed in the Jester's garb, grinning wildly.

"Let me ask you, Cat," he said, strolling towards Rasha. "Is there something which Rasha believes Cicero should know?"

Rasha's dark tufts above his eyes, pulled together in confusion. His cunning smile dropped into a frown. Behind him, Black Hand members leaned forward in bewilderment.

"Rasha does not understand-"

"Words!" Cicero shouted, stopping him. "Any words which must be spoken? Words said from the lips of the Night Mother Herself? What are the sacred words, if you call yourself Listener!?"

Rasha said nothing for a long moment, his eyes wide. He swallowed hard, and laughed lightly, obviously rather confused and, Cicero being as perfect of an assassin as he was, afraid. Who would not be afraid, when a man, in a Jester's motley, is shouting at you in a cackling, malice-filled voice? Especially when that man was more successful with a knife than most were with the simple act of walking – and performed just as easily. He was an assassin. A Black Hand. A remorseless killer.

And he was slowly going insane.

"There are words," Cicero said, clutching the book to his chest, and leaning over it, holding it tightly. "Words which the Night Mother would say to the newly-appointed Listener, which should be, in turn, said to the Keeper." His bright eyes looked hopelessly up to Garnag. "Rasha did not speak these words!"

"Cicero, are you sure you read it properly?" Garnag asked, sitting on the edge of Cicero's bed, the room empty (mostly because anyone else was too afraid to confront him.

"It says right here!" the Imperial said, before thrusting the book, open to the correct page, towards Garnag's face. "Can you not read?!"

"Cicero, relax," Garnag said, pushing him away, but holding his arms to subdue him. Cicero was frantic, shaking in the Orc's large hands. He was so young, but he was slowly breaking. He had been so sturdy before, hadn't he? "I think you should tell me what happened on that mission. Was it the one with the Jester?"

"The Jester!" Cicero shouted, practically screaming. He dove off of the bed, and began pacing frantically. "The Jester… He was so broken. He was so sad. He hurt, terribly. And me… The Keeper… Cicero… I could help him. I could heal him. I had healed him… But he couldn't stay healed. And I had to kill him. I had to! It was my contract. And he wanted to die. And oh, the laughing. The laughing!"

"Cicero!" Garnag shouted, and placed his large dark-olive skinned hands onto his shoulders, stopping him in his pacing. He forced the Imperial to turn and face him. He was so pale… He looked so sick, as though he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't, considering the state in which his steed returned, the lack of time he spent out of the Night Mother's sanctuary, and the rather large bags under his eyes. They probably hadn't stopped, all the way from Imperial City, to Cheydinhal. And those eyes…

"Rasha is not the Listener," Cicero said, his lips merely fluttering as he spoke, not really fully annunciating. "The cat is an imposter. What do we do?"

"There is nothing we can do," Garnag replied. "For now, we must wait. But be patient, my brother. The day will come, I assure you. Sithis won't allow this charade to go on for very long."

Cicero's patience quickly wore thin. Every day, he would slip into Garnag's room, and perch onto his bed, watching him closely. When the Orc would awaken, he would be startled, not only by Cicero's mere presence, but as well as the fact that he was staring wildly at him. His lips would tremble, as though he was speaking, but no audible words would sound. Garnag would eventually ask him what the matter was, and Cicero would hiss, in a way which could chill the blood. He would say, "The Cat must die."

It didn't take long, before Garnag realised that this was a critical matter. Not only out of fear for Cicero, but the fact that the very balance of tradition was being questioned and placed in jeopardy, with an imposter Listener. During the time of the Khajiit's "rule", he had put forth three contracts, and they were hardly large – the death of a bandit, of a thief, and of an illegal immigrant from Morrowind. Everyone had been anticipating a huge contract, given to them from the Night Mother, which could bring back the Black Hand's prominence in Cyrodiil, and all of Tamriel. The death of a nobleman, or even the Emperor himself. However, nothing of that sort came. And the other members were growing suspicious. Something would have to be done.

One night, the Orc stole away into the Listener's chamber. For being an Orismer Mage, the Orc was rather successful at sneaking. He remained in the shadows, just out of the reach of the candle's light in the chamber. Once the Khajiit slipped into a deep sleep, after blowing the candle out, Garnag crept towards him, disguised by shadow. Something in the doorway twitched, and he quickly looked to it, but nothing was there. Merely darkness.

The Orc slowly drew his blade, an Orcish dagger he kept hidden within his robes, and placed it over the furry figure of the man he had learned to be a friend. And as he brought the blade down, he was sure he saw a pair of bright, amber eyes flicker, and a devilish, insane laughter was just perceptible in the darkness.

The sanctuary fell. After the death of Rasha, all hell broke loose. Eventually, there had only been three remaining members: Garnag, Cicero, and another Imperial named Pontius. Pontius, not long after the sanctuary was in great peril, had fled for a contract. Or to gather supplies. Cicero could not remember. Anyway, he was killed by a couple of bandits. Common cutthroats! Slayed a skilled assassin. That was an indication that the Black Hand, Cyrodiil branch, was at its wit's end.

Cicero slept, ate, walked, thought, and existed for the Night Mother. And what was the Night Mother's gift to him? A bittersweet gift. A sound to permeate the silence which was beginning to overwhelm him. No one spoke to him. Everyone thought him crazy. But there was the gift. The sound.

Laughter.

At first, it was deep within the depths of his mind. But as the sanctuary became increasingly endangered, it became louder, and louder, until it escaped his lips. It startled himself, at times. He would laugh, and not know why. He knew, however, that the laughter within his mind, the laughter boiling within the depths of himself, creeping, like black vines up his throat, and bursting forth from his lips, was a gift from the Night Mother. A sound through the silence. It was the Jester, for Cicero to keep always.

Cicero quickly decided that it would be in his best interest to stay within the sanctuary. Leaving, was certain death. This became increasingly evident, after Garnag left, and never returned.

Cicero was alone.

With the Night mother.

The Silence.

And, above all, the Laughter.

Cicero was an assassin, no more. He was sane, no more. He was no longer Cicero. Cicero died. But, Cicero was born. He and the Jester and the Night Mother. Alone, together. For eight years.

Eight years had passed. Eight years, while the war loomed over his head. Eight years while the Night Mother said nothing to him. Eight years, while he spoke to the Night Mother, cleaned her, oiled her, kept her happy. Eight years the Jester laughed at him. With him. Through him. Eight years. He killed nothing but skeevers. He spoke to no one but Her.

Cicero knew the sanctuary was crumbling. They couldn't get through the door, but they were going to find a way in, and Cicero was vulnerable. There was no Listener in Cyrodiil. No Listener in him. He had to leave. And where could he go?

The Skyrim Sanctuary, in Falkreath. He had heard of it. He had received a letter. The Speaker there. Astrid. How could they continue their existence without the Night Mother? He would have to remind them of the old ways. They must bask beneath the glory of the Night Mother. Remember who they are, as members of the Dark Brotherhood. And, perhaps, she will speak. She will find a Listener, there.

He turned his back on Cyrodiil. The Night Mother tucked away nicely in a box, a fresh, new steed (the other had given its fleshy, juicy, lean life for his continued existence), to bring them to the new sanctuary. Their new home. Skyrim-bound. He and Mother.

And Silence.

And as Cicero and the Jester looked on to the winter province, he could still feel the laughter brewing within him. Stretching out through his body. Filling his veins and arteries, sating his hunger, satisfying his urges. The laughter was all. The Laughter was All.

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA _


End file.
